Past and Present
by Air Condition
Summary: She remembers how powerful He used to look. She remembers the nights where He would make her feel like an angel. This was diffrent. This wasn't about love. This was about the world. Lemon. NagatoXKonan. Oneshot. Angst.


"_Get ready." _He had told her.

It's sex. What is there to prepare? How does One 'get ready' for something like this? Does He have something specific in mind? She doesn't understand. That is unusual, but not worrisome. The questions are irrelevant, she decides. Whatever it is, it can't be all that difficult. For now, all she knows was that she has to be in her room. She has to wait for Him.

With that, she turns and slowly begins to walk down the hallway. Her mind is racing as she starts to consider all of the little details of this request. She knows this isn't about her. This isn't about Him. This is about the world, and they are simply doing what must be done. He is God, and she happens to be the closest child-bearing female in the vicinity. He wants an heir, because even Gods die. This isn't because He loves her, but her willingness to comply is certainly a testament of how much she cares for Him. Perhaps it is foolish, but she hopes that this will make Him happy, even in the smallest way.

Pleasure seems to be one of the unavoidable side effects of (successful) sex, especially for men. He is not free from that. Will that bring Him happiness, or will it upset Him that such a mortal pleasure can still overcome His body? Will such intimacy bring them closer, or will it force Him further away from her? Will He shut down?

Those are but a few of the many questions flooding her head as her hands grip the cold doorknob. When the door creeks open, her eyes sweep the familiar room, looking to see if He has arrived first. It is only a few seconds before she knows that she is alone, and still has a few precious moments left to herself. She spends those moments 'preparing' like He has told her. The flower she carries is placed on the nightstand, and her hair falls out of its usual bun, leaving it hanging in a wavy mess. She runs a brush through it once or twice, until it looks presentable. It's only after she puts the brush down that she realizes that her hair is just going to be ruined within the next hour.

The one thing she can't bring herself to do is remove the cloak. The room is cold, and the cloak is thin, but warm. The building is always cold. Not in such a way that requires coats or sweaters, but just cold enough to need something with sleeves. The sun never reaches the building she and her God reside in, because the gray storm clouds always cover the sky. The rooms are concrete, and there is nothing that can be considered 'insulating'. She thinks about her childhood. She thinks about the house that Jiraiya had found for them, and how it always seemed to be warm, even on the coldest of nights.

The memories of her childhood fade rather abruptly as she listens to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. They are slow, and heavy. She knows who's coming to her door, but doesn't move to open it. The last seconds she has to herself go by slowly, and she tries to collect her thoughts. When the door finally opens, she expects to feel like a target. She expects Him to look determined, and she expects Him to be quick about starting. None of those things happen. She feels invisible when He comes through the door. He looks in her direction, but His eyes are so unfocused that it feels like He's looking right through her. He stands in the doorway for what feels like hours, until she finally says something.

"You're tired," She tells him, unsure of whether He can even recognize his own weariness anymore.

"Yes," He replies, much to her surprise.

"We can do this tomorrow."

As soon as those words pass her lips, His eyes focus, and meet hers. He looks at her to see if she means that, and she does. If He is tired, she can wait. She _wants _to wait. He had told her to prepare, and He had meant both physically _and _mentally. She has done neither of those things, and needs more time. He knows that He hasn't given her much of a warning.

"If you don't want to, I can find someone else," He tells her.

His voice is soft, and calm. He doesn't mean it as a threat or an insult, simply a fact. Yet, even suggesting such an idea hurts her, and then she begins to wonder what other woman in their right mind would say yes to this request. Yes, Nagato was God. Yes, He was powerful. That doesn't mean anyone likes it. Any other woman would refuse, unless He forced it upon them.

For a second, she wonders if she's just telling herself that.

She pushes the thought out of her mind, realizing that she shouldn't be thinking of such things, anyway. She has accepted His request, and she is not about to defy God, even if He does give her that choice. However, Nagato has taken her thoughtful silence the wrong way, and begins to leave.

"Wait," She says, taking a step toward Him. "I'll still do it."

He is pleased to hear this, knowing that finding another woman would be troublesome, though not difficult. He turns to face her again, and decides that it is time to begin. Walking toward her is slow and painful, just like every other movement. His legs can't support what little weight He carries, and His chakra is the only thing that keeps Him walking. The thin fabric of His pants feel like fire as it brushes against His skin, as if the flames from the paper bombs on that horrific day have never gone out. She sees His pain, and it hurts her, too. She wonders how sex is even going to be possible if something as simple as walking is a chore.

"Nagato, please," She begs, grabbing his arms. "Don't hurt yourself."

She has said that so many times, and the message never seems to reach Him. Today is no different, and He refuses to lean on her for support. He comes closer, until His face is inches from hers. He can smell her perfume, and whatever she has been using to wash her hair. He's the reason she smells so nice. He's the reason she dresses the way she does. He's the reason she stays with Akatsuki. He is her purpose in life, and that will never change. Having Him so close makes her happier than she'd like to admit. Perhaps she has thought too hard about His request. Perhaps it isn't quite as intimidating as it sounds.

His hands are cold when He gets them inside her cloak, and the studs on His arms are even colder. She shivers, but she's not sure if it's the temperature, or the fact that He's touching her. Probably both. He pushes the Akatsuki uniform off of her shoulders, and lets it fall to her feet. It's been a while since He's seen her without the cloak. He's seen it through Deva's eyes, but not His own. It is different when He is actually there. In the back of His mind, He has always wondered why she chooses to wear that outfit. He never asks, because it's never important. The question on His mind seems obvious to her, though. She can see that He's staring at her shirt, or what's under it.

"Nagato…"

The sound of His name –His real name– brings Him back to reality, and He remembers the task at hand. This isn't the time for trivial questions. (It never will be.) He's wasted a few precious minutes already, and He is tired. If He hopes to sleep at all, this needs to be over quickly. The bed seems like the easiest place, but He has to walk to it. She follows just behind Him, making sure He won't fall, or otherwise hurt Himself. He stops when He reaches the edge, and turns to her.

"Sit down," He says.

She obeys, but gets up no more than a second later.

"It'll be easier if _you_ sit," She tells Him. "I can--"

"No," He interrupts. He wants this to be done His way, because He believes it to be the quickest and easiest. He wants control of the situation. She doesn't press the issue, and sits like He has told her to. He puts his hand on her chest, and presses her down onto the bed. He pauses for a minute, thinking about how to continue. He hasn't given this much thought, and it is easier said than done. He remembers things like this coming so naturally (She does, too.), but that was before He had become a God. One would think that becoming a God would make things easier, but this is an exception to that rule. If this is going to work, He will have to act on human urges.

"Are you okay?" She asks, seeing His blank expression.

"Yes," He says, reaching for her shirt. She's not expecting to be undressed so quickly, but she's not complaining, either. He knows how to unbutton the shirt, because He has seen her do it a thousand times. There is one button behind her neck, and two more toward the bottom, where the shirt comes together near her lower back. He pushes himself up onto the bed, and she backs away to give Him room to kneel between her legs. She lets Him come closer, and unbutton the top of her shirt, and finishes the other two buttons herself. The room feels even colder when her shirt is gone (especially since she never wears anything under it.), and she wonders how Nagato can stand to be like this all the time. Of course, it's not as if He has a choice.

Before she can dwell on that, she is forced down again, and He's pulling at what's left of her clothes. She wants to tell Him to slow down, but she doesn't. This isn't about _her_ or what _she_ wants. She arches her back, and helps Him, instead. He gets off the bed to remove them completely, and then stops to examine her for a moment. She's exactly how He remembers her. Nothing has changed except for the look on her face. She looks nervous, which He finds strange. They've done this before. What was the problem?

She knows she's being stared at, and finds it unnerving. His eyes are always so judgmental of the world, and she feels as though they are being judgmental of _her_. However, He doesn't care about her imperfections or shortcomings at the moment. She is capable of doing what He has asked of her, and that is the only thing that matters.

He pulls His eyes away from her to remove his own pants, which seems much more difficult than it should. The studs on His legs catch on the fabric, making it almost impossible to remove the simple piece of clothing. She sits up to help Him, despite being told not to. He attempts to push her away, but she easily pushes though His feeble attempts. He stops once her hands reach the waistband, because He figures it's not worth fighting.

She kneels to separate the fabric from the chakra rods, and pushes the pants across the floor when they are finally off. The last piece of clothing seems slightly less troublesome to remove, and she pushes them away, too. Having her on her knees in front of Him like this seems to remind Him of something, and He quickly pulls her up before He can recall the memory. He leads her back up by her chin, and their faces are mere inches away from each other. If only for a moment, she expects a kiss from her God, but then remembers where she is, and who He has become. A kiss seems out of the question, along with almost any form of foreplay.

He moves her back down on bed, and hovers over her, intending to begin immediately. He stops when He feels her hands sliding down His chest, because He thinks that there's something wrong. There isn't any real problem, and she is just remembering how powerful He used to look. She watches His face as her fingers curl around him. He doesn't seem to acknowledge what she's doing. She intends to change that. This isn't for pleasure, but that doesn't mean that it can't be included. He could probably use something enjoyable, even if He is going to pretend to ignore it.

Ignoring it proves to be difficult. Too difficult. His breathing becomes heavier, and she watches in satisfaction as His face begins to express His pleasure. She remembers _exactly_ how He likes to be touched, even if He doesn't. To Him, this seems like a reminder of what life used to be. He remembers the last time she touched Him like this, and it wasn't recently. He has all but forgotten their previous experiences, locking it away in the back of His mind. It wasn't important. Those memories can only lead to more painful ones.

He pushes her hands away, though His body seems to ache in protest. Now, nothing is preventing Him from continuing. His entrance seems abrupt, even though she is expecting it. It's painful. He has had plenty of stimulation, while she has had almost none. She isn't ready (not that it matters.). Hiding the pain is almost too easy. She has felt worse. The first time was worse. The first time had felt unreal.

The first time they'd done this, physical pain wasn't a regular thing for her. Tears had fallen down her face for a brief moment, and He apologized between kisses for the rest of the night. She begged Him to go faster, even though it hurt. He had finished first, and she never quite made it. Yahiko wouldn't look her in the eye for the next few days, and he had a very heated discussion with Nagato about their actions. In retrospect, it probably wasn't the brightest idea to be doing such things with their dearest friend and leader in the next room.

That didn't stop it from happening again. They learned to time it properly, and Yahiko rarely had to experience such nights again. (When he did, there were consequences.) They quickly discovered what felt good, and what didn't. There were nights that went by in an instant, and there were nights that would last forever. There were nights that went by in silence, and nights where all of Amegakure could've heard them. There were nights where they would need each other more than anything else in the world, and there were nights where the two of them just wanted to go to sleep. There were good nights, there were great nights, and then there were the nights where He would make her feel like an angel.

Those nights were always dreamlike. In the morning, she would feel as if it had been too good to be real. The only thing left to convince her otherwise was Him, because He would always be there when she woke up. On those nights, nothing else seemed to matter. On those nights, her heart would race while He told her anything and everything that she wanted to hear (He always meant every word of it.). He would kiss her in places that nobody else could, and touch her in ways that seemed impossible. On those nights, His name would be the only thing she said (Or screamed, whispered, sighed, and begged for.) He never asked her to return the favor, but she did anyway. She always did.

She remembers it all so clearly, because she swore to herself (and Him) that she'd never forget. The memories alone are arousing, despite her knowing that it will never happen again. Of course, what's happening to her at the moment hardly seems to be reinforcing that knowledge. His pace is insufferably slow, and 'gentle' can't even begin to describe how it feels. The pain is gone, but pleasure seems to be out of her reach. She isn't the only one who feels this way. He seems to be frustrated with the pace, too. He could go faster if it wouldn't hurt so much. For a few moments, she thinks about how much easier this would be if He had just let her take control. She toys with the idea of pushing Him over, but remembers that He can't be on his back. She decides to wait, instead. Maybe He'll figure out that she was right.

He never does. It never occurs to Him that He is making this a lot harder than it has to be. He adjusts Himself more than once, but never seems to find an easier way. His skin is on fire, the sweat has plastered His hair to His face and neck, and His heart feels like it's about to explode. This certainly isn't going as quickly as He had planned. She tries to help in any way she can without taking control of the situation. She pushes the hair out of His face, and positions herself in the best way possible, but it hardly seems to help.

After an multitude of ineffective attempts, He stops. She watches Him sit back on his legs, and wonders what He's planning. After a few minutes of silence, it becomes apparent that He is running out of ideas. He has been tired from the start, and this isn't helping. She finally decides to sit up, and try her own method. She doesn't ask, because if He really wants to stop her, He will.

He doesn't protest when she climbs up on His lap. She assumes that she has His permission, and proceeds. It takes a minute for her to get comfortable, but things get easy from there. _He_ might not have been able to move at a satisfactory pace, but she finds it simple. It's still somewhat painful for Him, but not enough to stop. The benefits seem to outweigh any reason to do so (that always seems to be the case.).

She's happy, knowing she has been right all along. He'll never admit that He was wrong, but that doesn't make a difference to her. She has gotten her way with things (for once), and it works perfectly. His nails come close to breaking the skin on her arms as He finishes, and only a whisper makes it through His lips. She stops when He tells her to. She isn't ready for it to end, but restrains herself from going any further. At this point, it is probably best to let Him sleep.

She slides off of His lap, and sits in silence. She expects Him to leave now that they are finished, because there's no reason for Him to stay. He never makes it off the bed. When He tries to push himself up, He falls forward. She leans away from Him, and braces herself. It doesn't hurt like she expects it to. Even with the rods in His back, He barely weighs anything. He tries again to leave, but only makes it a few inches toward the edge before He falls. Focusing His chakra is almost impossible now, and without that, it is unlikely that He will make it all the way back to His own room. The comfort of a bed isn't helping to motivate Him.

"You can stay…"

He doesn't need her permission, but the idea wouldn't have crossed His mind if she didn't mention it. He looks up at her through His hair, trying to decide if it could cause any real issues. On any other night, He would see plenty of problems with this idea. Tonight is an exception. Tonight, He has acted on _human _urges, and exhausted Himself more than usual. Tonight, better judgment has been abandoned, and hasn't returned. Tonight, He accepts.

He doesn't say anything to her. He merely drags himself up to the head of the bed, and goes to sleep. She doesn't follow immediately. It's _still_ cold in the room. She gets her cloak from the floor, and lays it over Him before finally crawling under the sheets herself. He looks a lot like He used to, with His hair covering His face. She recalls the last time He actually stayed with her for the night. It was years ago. Not since Pain had been brought to life.

She knows that tonight is different. She knows that it probably won't happen again. So, she takes advantage of the moment. She slides her hand under His, and pretends –just for tonight– that He still loves her.


End file.
